


Dead Meat

by mother_finch



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F, Gen, mother-finch fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-29
Updated: 2015-03-29
Packaged: 2018-03-20 04:50:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3637365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mother_finch/pseuds/mother_finch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>PROMPT: Root x Shaw prompt (because I miss her): Root takes Bear on a mission with Harold assisting from the Subway. Shaw enters in time to hear gunfire over the radio and goes to assist. Root starts freaking out despite being injured herself because Bear got hurt and she is convinced Shaw is going to kill her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dead Meat

The sound of clinking chains and thin padded shoes swims around Shaw, and the murmuring voices clash in her ears. Grabbing a tray, she slides the soft Styrofoam down alongside two other women. Sue, a trusted ally to her now, shovels are large spoonful of mashed potatoes onto her tray.

"Hey, Queen," Sue says with a small smile, raggedly cut blonde hair sweeping into her eyes. She pushes it back with a scarred hand, and Shaw keeps her eyes away from the barely healed slash under her eye. Shaw smiles back, chuckling inside at the nickname.

” _Killer,_ " Shaw replies, then moves down the line. At each stop, a different woman greets her warmly, until she turns. Before her is a sea of orange. Stepping forward, a group of rowdy women beckon to her, and she squishes in at the table’s edge.

"Hey, hey! Look who it is!" The first woman calls out, smile lively on her dark, round face. Her New York accent is thick and kind.

"Whadaya got for us today?" Another asks, unruly black curls bouncing around her head. Shaw leans forward, hand on the table. Peering around for any guards, she opens her palm briefly, revealing a miniature chocolate bar. The women squirm with joy as Shaw quickly brings her hand back under the table.

"Enough for all of you," Shaw tells them with a smirk. "As long as you got something for  _me_.”

* * *

 

The women chuckle, and the olive skinned woman beside her pushes her shoulder playfully. “The Queen from Queens knows how to get her way.” Laughter rumbles once more, and Shaw smiles, but only for the character. A small strand of dark red hair falls before her eyes, and she’s reminded once more of her wig- her identity.

Sarah Sanders. Drug dealer from Queens. The Machine put her in this silly little women’s prison, much to her displeasure.  _'You owe me big time for this, Harold,'_  she remembers growling into her earpiece as John and Lionel drove a prison van to this new location. However, her view on this run down place changed soon after arriving. It was no beauty, but the inmates were charming- almost. All kind, tough women with a lot to say. Within the first twenty minutes, she’d already given out mints to half the inmates, earning her the title, “Queen Dealer.” After hearing she was from Queens, the nickname dropped to the foremost word.  _'The red hair is a bit much, don't ya think?'_ She’d huffed to John as he’d taken her ear piece.  _'It's for your own safety,'_  he replied. She wondered why she couldn’t have just been a guard, but realized easily that no criminal would talk to their likes. Even  _she_  sneered their way. With fabricated prints, and a cell to herself, things hadn’t been that bad. Harold had even managed to tweak the schedule- one call a week.

"So, about that information," the curly haired woman- known solely as Jen- cuts into Shaw’s thoughts. "Me and Twitch? We got somethin’  _good_.” The chocolate skinned woman with the thick accent nods vigorously.

"That lady you been huntin’ for? We asked around, finally got a way to reach her."

"The name’s Carter Regan," the woman with the curls continues where Twitch left off. "She’s been in solitary confinement since she got here, that’s why none of us knew her. Turns out she’s allowed out by the end of the week." Shaw purses her lips, taking in the vital information. From under the table, she slips a chocolate bar into each of their awaiting hands.

"Carter Regan?" Sue says, shedding her work apron and sitting on the empty side of Shaw. She takes a slice of bread off of Jen’s plate, then chews in thought. She swallows. "I’m the reason why she’s in here."

” _What_?!” The other women at the table exclaim, but Shaw watches on, unfazed. She knew- she’d known for a long time.  _That’s why I’m here after all, isn’t it?_ She thinks, looking over at Sue.  _To protect her, and I guess we finally know the threat._

"Yeah, a real broad," Sue tells them, met by silent laughter. "Real mean, too. Worked with my husband all that while back. Hated her. Hated  _him_.” She takes another bite of bread. “When I saw her face on the news, I knew it was her. Different name and all, but you can’t hide a face like hers.” Sue shutters, and more amused chuckling emerges. “Turns out the crazy bitch was killing people left and right. So I turned her in. Never thought I’d be in the same prison as her. Prison at all, honestly.”

"Oh, none of us think we’re comin’ here," Twitch says with a compassionate smile. "You got a bad deal, and we  _all_  know it.” Everyone nods, including Shaw, who takes in once again the extent of her scarring. All the way up her right arm, receding way up and past the orange jump suit. Traces of the same lumpy tissue comes to the edge of her jaw bone. She slips Sue a piece of the candy, remembering the woman’s awful story, and wondering why the Machine never had them help.  _Maybe because she had it under control?_ Shaw thinks, thinks of how she killed her husband- only after he had done  _that_  to her. Shaw looks to one of the small windows, and watches as the last few rays of sun escape through. The barred-in wall clock reads 7:30.

"Whelp, ladies," Shaw says, pushing up from the table, "If you’ll excuse me, but I have a phone call to make." She hands off the rest of the small bars to Sue, who immediately begins to pass them out with stealth.

Walking up to the mess hall doors, a guard lets her out into the hall, while another follows just behind. She peers over at him- sees him eyeing her- sizing her up.  _How easily I could._. her mind drifts off, thinking of all the ways to take him down. Finally, they arrive at the phone booth cemented into the wall. He swipes his card in the slot, then picks up the phone, handing it to Shaw.

"You have ten minutes," he tells her, walking away. "And don’t forget-"

"Yeah, yeah, you’re recording.  _Got it_ ,” Shaw monotones, resting the plastic phone between her ear and shoulder. Too bad Harold scratches the records, she thinks with a smirk, then dials.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Harold, it’s me," she says, peering side to side. "I’ve got more information. I think I know who wants to kill Killer."

" Kill  _who_?”

"Sue- the number, we- we call her Killer," Shaw tells him, shaking her head.

"I see you’ve made yourself at home, Miss. Shaw," he says with light humor in his voice. Shaw shakes her head.

"About as comfortable as you can get in a women’s correctional facility." From the background, Shaw hears a light voice mumbling in the background. "Is… Is Root there?" She asks, trying to keep the excitement from her voice.

"Yes, she’s right behind me. I was going to-"

The voice is louder, and Shaw can distinguish it as Root’s, but not quite what she’s saying.

"Yes, Miss. Groves, you can talk to her in a moment, I just-"

More sound.

"But I  _need_  to-“

There is a scrambling, and Shaw hears Harold wheeze out a breath as something hits him, his chair noisily rolling across the floor. There is the sound of the phone hitting the desk, then nails on wood as it resurfaces.

"Hey, Sweetie," Root’s voice is clear and exuberant, slightly breathy from her quarrel with Harold. Shaw cannot hide the large smile that comes to her face; although she tries.

"Hi, Root," she replies, hearing the happiness in her own voice. Part of her scolds for the gush, but the rest of her is too delighted to care.  _You’d be surprised how you miss their voices when you only get to hear them once a week,_ she thinks to herself, picturing Root’s smiling face- and Harold’s annoyed stare from his pushed-away seat.

"How are things?" She asks, a small ounce of concern slithering its way into her words.

"They’re fine, how about over there?"

"Lonely," she sighs. "Without  _you_  here, the only one I have to be with is Bear.” Shaw’s smile widens- what she thought was an impossible feat- and her heart starts to jump.

"Well," Shaw replies, lowering her voice. "I should be out of here by next week. I’m pretty sure I know where the threat is coming from."

"Good," Root says with relief. "You’ve been in there a  _long_  time.”

"Eh, three weeks isn’t  _too_  bad.” Shaw thinks back to the day she first heard about this number- this identity. The only person who hated the idea more than Shaw was Root.  _'You can't do that!'_ she yelled at Harold.  _'You can't go!'_  she’d begged Sameen. But, to no avail.  _'Can't she just go when something is about to happen?'_  She’d asked with despair in her eyes.  _'I'm afraid not,'_  Harold replied, sadly.  _'Although the Machine does not know when the danger will occur, She knows it is imperative Miss. Shaw go now. Even if it is a long mission, she needs to be trusted among the inmates if there is any hope in saving our number.'_  Shaw gruelingly agreed with Harold, sending Root into a fit of infuriated silence. She’d helped Shaw with fitting a wig, wished her luck- almost hugged her- but settled on a  _'be safe.'_

"Maybe for  _you_ ,” Root complains, but Shaw can hear the light-hearted grin in Root’s words. Shaw laughs.

"So, little Miss. Lonely.. you have any plans tonight?"

"Just a number. The  _dog_  will be coming. And Bear.” From the other end, Shaw can hear a flustered huff from Harold, and Shaw cannot conceal the chuckle that escapes her lips. From down the corridor, a guard shoots Shaw a snide look. Then, there is beeping in her ear.

"Two minute warning," Shaw tells Root.

"Only  _two_  minutes?” From the background, she hears Harold’s voice.

"Can’t it wait, Harry?" Root spits at him, met by more frantic sounds from him. Root’s voice pulls from the phone, and they bicker a minute. Shaw rolls her eyes.

"Thirty seconds, guys."

"Okay, well  _Harold_  wants to talk to you,” there is an unmistakable annoyance in her voice; however, it clears as she says her goodbyes. “Be safe in there, okay?”

"You got it," Shaw replies tapping her foot.  _Fifteen seconds.._.

"Bye, Honey," there is shuffling, then Harold clears his throat.

"So, Miss. Shaw, if you could-" There is one long, eerie beep, then the line is dead. Pursing her lips, Shaw hooks the phone back on its holster. The original guard comes back out from the back enclosure, then walks her to her cell.  _The Cell_.  _A nice touch on the Machine’s part_ , she acknowledges, shoes making small noise on the hard floor.  _One of a kind_. Although the wall was thick concrete, there was a small, chipped out crack in the side. Big enough only for her fingertips, she realized it was a thick panel, opening to a small vent that led to the outside world. It took a long climb and a lot of elbow grease, but she could be out in thirty minutes. Ditching her wig and romper once a week, she escaped in normal attire to a dollar store, buying the next week’s bribery. There was never enough time to go anywhere else, nor the money to call anyone to meet her. It was a nice touch to an otherwise drab room. They allowed photos on the gray walls, but she didn’t keep any there. However, in that small vent area, she kept a few. John and Lionel in one; Harold and Bear in another; Carter, Zoe, and herself from their one humorous ‘girl’s night’; and one- well two- of Root. One alone, and one of the both of them. John took it, both unsuspecting- Root had an amused smile on her face, and Shaw wore an angry frown.

The guard stops before the cell door, and Shaw slips in without another word. Taking off the jumpsuit, she slips on a white tank top and orange shorts, settling down on the hard, jail cot.

______________\ If Your Number’s Up /______________

"Are you ready, Harry?" Root asks, pulling her coat up on her shoulders. At her side, Bear sits expectantly, leash in mouth. With a smile, she latches it, and he stands, ready to roll.

"Yes," he replies, walking from the train car. Fedora on his head, he walks out to her, then the two head off.

"Is bringing Bear necessary, Miss. Groves?" He asks as they exit out into the cool night.

"Can  _you_  smell drugs, Harold?” He remains silent.

"Neither can I. Bear, however," she says, giving the German Shepard a kind look, "is more than equipped." They continue a minute more, and Harold pipes up again.

"I really needed to speak with Miss. Shaw. The reason I got her a call a week was to update us on the task at hand,  _not_  for  _you_  to play house.” Root sends a cross look his way.

"If you hadn’t sent her there, you wouldn’t have to  _wait_  another week before getting the update.”

"Miss. Groves, there was  _no_ -” He stops, knowing his words will be lost on her. Stuffing his hands in his cloak pockets, he walks down the streets in silence, mind wandering to matters pressing at him. Before he knows it, Root stops at a rusty alley door. She looks at him expectantly, and Harold sighs, bending over to pick the lock. Within moments, they are in.

"Remind me again what is so valuable in this place," Harold says, eyes scanning the dark, grimy walls, moss-ridden floors, and the unmistakable scratching of rat claws on concrete.

"Three lives and a million dollars for the taking?" Root offers as Bear brings his nose down, sniffing. In an instant, he takes off, dragging Root down the dank hallway. They twist and turn through a labyrinth of hallways, Harold struggling to keep up, until they come to a large, open room. About the size of a college gymnasium, it is a clean, brightly lit room. All around are large crates, and stacked on them are big bags of white powder. Looking left to right, Root hands Bear’s leash to Harold, drawing both her guns in the process.

"You find the money," she tells him in a silent voice. "And I’ll find the people." With that, she leaves him, heading towards the center of the room. She hears voices, the whimpers of frightened people, and the loud echos of steel-toed boots on hard floors.

They come into view, and she presses herself against a large crate, peering secretively around. Two men with sub-machine guns; two others with .357 magnums, and three college students- beaten and sweat soaked- bound to wooden chairs with rags over their mouths. One girl and two boys. Pointing her gun in the air, she shoots out a large overhead light, bathing the criminals in sparks and darkness. They shoot wildly into the air, and one of the kids scream. Silently, she steps out from her hiding place, bathed in shadow, and begins to shoot at the men.

Like a game of laser tag, she dodges between large crates, slowly picking off the men- who never let off the trigger. Tufts of powder fly into the air, and Root’s lungs burn from holding her breath- not daring breathe in whatever this substance may be. The light, sparking from time to time, flickers back to life, giving off a low glow. From across the way, she sees Harold. There is a large duffle bag over his shoulder, and his eyes are that of a deer caught in head lights. One if the riflemen see him, and he raises his gun. Before Root can take aim, Bear charges from Harold’s grasp and throws himself at the man. He topples to the ground, shrieking in agony. His gun fires randomly- there is the ear piercing whine only a hurt dog can emit. Bear slams back, whining in pain, and Root sees his pelt matted in blood.

With anger and speed, she comes out of hiding, shooting the man who hurt Bear dead on the ground. The last two men standing fire ruthlessly at her, and she is hit by three- all slamming into her left thigh. She lets out a grunt, instantly slamming to the floor. Her face contorts in pain as she rolls to her back, shooting back at the oncoming men. The light flicks back off, and Root feels two hands pull under her arms, dragging her back. She winces, but stays silent, feeling the blood seeping into her jeans. The hands leave her resting on a crate, then quick footsteps recede, returning a moment later with a slightly whimpering form in their arms. From not too far away, gun fire ricochets into the air.

Root holds her leg, feeling the small entry wounds in the front, then the much larger exit wounds in the back. She rips off her jacket, tying it tightly around her leg, then kneels over Bear. His breath is coming in thick bursts, and Root presses her hands to his side, feeling his wet fur sticky and warm between her fingers.  She swallows hard, then quickly swipes at her earpiece. She listens as it rings, heart growing more and more vicious with each trill.

"Hello?"

"Yes, hi, I need to speak to Samee- Sarah. Sarah Sanders."

"Sorry, she’s already had her phone ca-"

"Wait!" She screams into the earpiece, getting a pissy look from Harold. In a quieter tone, she continues. "Our dog- he- he’s sick- he’s not doing okay- she- she needs to know.  _Please_!” The man on the other end of the line stays silent, and she can feel her anxiety mounting.  _Sameen is going to kill me,_  she thinks, looking down at Bear.  _I got her dog shot, she’s gonna kill me._

"How bad is the dog?" He asks at last.

"Dying."

"… _Fine_. One moment. But- just so you know- she isn’t getting next week’s call.”

"Yes, yes, okay," Root agrees quickly, eyes glued to Bear. She feels under him, around his other side- no exit wound. She runs her hand down his side, feeling the slash of a nasty flesh wound. She hears footsteps echoing on the other end.

"Who should I tell her is calling?" He asks.

"Her wife."

There are more footsteps, then the clanking of keys. The smooth rumble of prison bars.

"Sanders. Get up." There is shuffling and the creak of a cot. Root’s stomach ties a hard knot, shaking with fearful nerves at the tongue lashing undoubtedly coming her way.  _What is it, one a.m.?_

” _What._ " She hears Shaw’s grumpy, sleepy voice in the background.

"Your wife is on the line, said something about your dog. Sick or something. Apparently real bad."

"My w- give me  _that_.” The bed springs come to life, and a moment later Shaw is on the line.

"Root, this better be good or I  _swea_ -“

"Bear’s been shot, it’s all my fault, I don’t know what to do." Shaw’s stomach drops.

"Can you get him out of there?"

"No. Not yet. Too many victims still here, and too much gun power to get out unscathed." From somewhere close by, there is the firing of a machine gun. "Shaw, I’m so sorry, I…" Her voice trails off as she feels a wave of nausea overcome her. Her head swims, and she feels herself sway.

"Miss. Groves, I’ll help Bear. You need to take to yourself." Harold’s voice is harsh in her ear as he starts to push Root away. She nearly topples over, feeling surprisingly faint all of a sudden.  _Perhaps the adrenaline is running low_ , she thinks, feeling the wounds start to scream.

"Wait,  _you’re_  hurt?” Shaw’s voice is quiet but insistent. “ _Root_!”

"I’m fine," she gets out, swallowing hard as she leans her sweat-beaded head against a large crate.

"You are  _not_  fine,” Harold hisses.

"Root, I’ll-" the line drops.

______________\ We’ll Find You /______________

The phone is wrenched from Shaw’s grasp and snapped shut. Beside her, the guard gives her a stern look, the moon the only thing illuminating his dark skin. He’s young- maybe thirty- with short curly hair.

"What the h-"

"Time was up," he growls, stuffing the old cell into his pocket. In a more haughtily amused voice, he adds, "A  _wife_?  _Really_? A real shame, I thought  _we_  could have somethin’.”

Shaw smirks at his self-satisfied face, nerves screaming for her to leave. “Oh, the things I want to do with  _you_ ,” she replies in a slow, provocative voice as she steps forward, “have more to do with bullets and tasers than a bedroom.” In his confused state, she rips the gun and taser from his belt, then brings him into a strong choke hold. He struggles, gurgling for air.

"Sh- shh," she coos, and he falls, limp. Swiftly, she shuts the cell door, and throws his heavy form onto the bed. Taking the weapons she newly acquired, she slips into the vent. Ripping down her photos and grabbing her normal clothes, she shimmies through the vent in record time, dresses quickly, then runs to the front of the jail parking lot. Silently, she hot wires the nearest police car and flicks on the colored lights. Moments later, the car’s wheels screech, and she is far from sight of the prison.

After ripping the wig from her head and tossing it behind her, her mind begins to reel.  _Is Root okay? Is she alive? Is Bear? How long do they have?_  She thinks of the gunfire she heard over the phone, the worry in Harold’s voice- Root’s own voice all of a sudden going limp. With a frustrated yelp, she realizes something crucial:  _I don’t even know where they are._  Suddenly, the police radio crackles to life.

"One… Eight… Seven… Bravo… Alpha… Kilo…" the monetized voice continues through different letters of the NATO phonetic alphabet, and Shaw listens with greedy ears. There is a tri-tone beep, then it repeats once more.  _187 Baker Street, NYC._  Gripping the steering wheel tight, she presses the gas pedal hard against the car floor, every tree less than a flash in her vision.  _Hang on,_ she pleads.  _Hang on Root, I’m on my way_.

_______________\ Dead Meet /_______________

 _Blurry. It’s blurry._ That seems to be the only thought pulling its way through Root’s mind as she peers around her. She feels warm, dark liquid on the ground around her.  _Sticky. Warm. Blurry._ From her flank, Harold holds Bear’s side, but looks at her with worried eyes. They fade in and out of focus.

"Miss. Groves," Harold’s voice is a whisper. "Can you hear me?" She nods.  _Cold. I’m cold_. From somewhere across the room, a door slams open. Guns fire, and one man drops like a bird shot out of the sky. There are footsteps, then the squealing of the children. Silence another moment, and then they start to panic.

"Shut up and get out," a voice growls at them, and there is the sound of fast sneaker bottoms on concrete. Another round of gunfire erupts into the air, and the second man drops, jerking violently on the ground- the sound of electric volts in the air- his machine gun clattering loudly to the ground.

"Root!" Shaw’s voice calls out into the darkness of the room. Root smiles.  _I’m over here_ , she thinks pleasantly.

"Miss. Shaw! This way!" Harold’s voice slices through the silence, and quick footsteps rush to their direction. A moment later, Shaw’s face appears in the darkness. The light above gives a dying act, lighting up once again- sparks spitting out savagely. Shaw’s eyes widen, seeing the overwhelming crimson liquid coating what should be a gray floor.

"God…" Shaw trails off, eyes stopping on Root’s lolling head, brown hair concealing her entire face. She crouches down, pulling the hair from her face, breath being sucked from her at Root’s white marble skin. Root turns her head over to face Shaw, a frown on her face.

"I’m sorry, Shaw," she says meekly. "Bear isn’t-"

"Root, enough about Bear, we’ll get him help- he’ll be okay." Her eyes trail over to Harold, who gives her an assuring nod.  _'Flesh wound_ ' he mouths to her, then lifts their whimpering companion into his arms, crisp suit coated in blood. “Are  _you_  alright?”

Root nods grimly. “I’m fine, but you’re gonna  _kill_  me.”

"Why?" Shaw spits out, frustration her only way to exhaust her underlying fear.

"Because  _Bear_ ,” she screams, verging tears- her blood loss causing her mind to slow to a snail’s pace.

"If you really want, I can kill you later," Shaw assures her, pressing her lips together as she lifts Root up from the waist, clasping her hands around Root’s rib cage. Her feet drag on the ground, head and neck flopping down on Shaw’s shoulder.  _Why does she have to be so tall?_  Shaw wonders with anxiety, pulling Root back towards the exit. “But for right now, I’m only concerned about keeping you  _alive_.”

Root smiles into Shaw’s neck, eyes closed. “Thanks, Sam.” A minute that seems like an hour slips by, and finally Shaw comes to the cold night, seeing Harold in the driver’s seat, Bear laying on the passenger side. Quickly, Shaw hauls Root into the backseat, then slides in beside her.

"Step on it, Harold," she commands, and he races down the road with jerky brakes and turns. Shaw presses her hands to Root’s thigh, who winces. "You’re gonna be fine, okay?" She tells Root, who nods from her lying position.

"Thank you," she says once more, opening her eyes. "For coming."

"How could I leave you without backup?" She replies, a smile coming to her lips. Root chuckles lightly, sending a burst of relief into Shaw’s system. She watches Root breathe, looks at her smooth face and closed eyes. After a moment of debate, she takes Root’s hand- both bloody anyway- and gives it a reassuring squeeze. Root’s stone face cracks a smile. Just ahead, the hospital ER doors come into sight. Harold slams to a rickety halt. "You’re going to be fine," she tells Root, pulling her up. Harold is already gone, and Shaw sees medics with gurneys rushing to their vehicle. She gives Root’s hand one last squeeze before they pull Root away from her, strapping her down. "Everything’s going to be fine."


End file.
